Hunger (10 page)

“A half krone, my old friend!” I said, making myself bold. “Here—here's value for your money.” And I stuck the little packet into his hand.

“Haven't got it,” he said, “I swear to God!” And he turned his purse inside out under my very eyes. “I was out last night and went bust. You must believe me, I haven't got it.”

“Of course, my friend, I understand,” I answered, taking his word for it. There was no reason, after all, why he should lie in such a trifling matter; in fact, his blue eyes seemed all but moist when he examined his pockets and didn't find anything. I turned back. “Please excuse me, then,” I said. “I just happen to be in a tight spot right now.”

I was already some distance down the street when he called after me about the packet.

“Keep it, just keep it!” I replied. “You are quite welcome to it. It's only a couple of small things, a trifle—pretty much all my possessions on this earth.” I was moved by my own words—they sounded so dismal in the evening twilight—and burst into tears.

The wind was blowing more briskly, the clouds scudded furiously across the sky, and it became chillier and chillier as it grew dark. Walking down the street I cried without a break, feeling more and more sorry for myself, and time after time I repeated a few words, an exclamation which drew fresh tears when they were about to stop: “Oh God, I'm so miserable! Oh God, I'm so miserable!”

An hour passed—it passed exceedingly slowly and sluggishly. I hung about on Torv Street awhile, sat on the steps, slipped into the entranceways when someone came by, or stood staring vacuously into the illuminated little shops where people were scurrying about with merchandise and money. At last I found myself a snug spot behind a lumber pile between the church and the Arcades.

No, I couldn't go out to the woods tonight, no matter what; I didn't have the strength for it and it was so endlessly far away. I would stay where I was and get through the night as best I could. If it became too cold I could stroll about a bit by the church, I didn't intend to make any more fuss about that. I leaned back and drowsed.

The noise around me diminished, the stores closed, the footsteps of the pedestrians were heard more and more seldom, and eventually the lights went out in the windows. . . .

Opening my eyes, I noticed a figure in front of me; the shiny buttons that gleamed toward me made me suspect a policeman. I couldn't see the man's face.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” I answered, feeling scared. I got up, embarrassed. He stood motionless awhile.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

By force of habit, and without reflecting, I named my old address, the little attic room I had given up.

He stood awhile again.

“Have I done something wrong?” I asked fearfully.

“No, not at all,” he answered. “But you ought to go home now, don't you think, it's cold lying here.”

“Yes, it's chilly, I can feel it.”

I said good night and instinctively set out for my old place. If I watched my step I was pretty sure I could walk up without being heard—there were eight flights of stairs in all, and only the two top ones had creaky steps.

I took off my shoes in the entrance and went up. It was quiet everywhere. On the second floor I heard the slow tick tock of a clock and a child crying softly; then I heard nothing more. I found my door, lifted it slightly on its hinges and opened it without a key as I was used to doing, entered the room and pulled the door shut without a sound.

Everything was just as I had left it—the curtains were pulled away from the windows and the bed was empty. Over on the table I glimpsed a piece of paper, probably my note to the landlady. So she hadn't even been up here since I went away. I fumbled with my hand over the white spot and felt to my surprise that it was a letter. A letter? I take it over to the window, scan the badly written characters as best I can in the dark, and finally make out my own name. Aha! I think, the landlady's answer, warning me not to set foot in the room anymore in case I should wish to come back!

And slowly, quite slowly, I walk out of the room again, carrying my shoes in one hand, the letter in the other, and the blanket under my arm. Clenching my teeth, I tread lightly on the creaky steps, make it safely down all those flights of stairs, and find myself in the entranceway once more.

I put on my shoes again, taking my time with the laces; I even sit still for a moment after I'm done, staring blankly ahead of me and holding the letter in my hand.

Then I stand up and leave.

The flickering light of a street lamp twinkles up the way, so I walk right under the light, lean my parcel up against the lamppost and open the letter, doing it all with extreme slowness.

A stream of light seems to surge through my breast, and I hear myself giving a little cry, a meaningless sound of joy: the letter was from the editor, my story was accepted, it had gone directly to the composing room! “A few minor changes . . . corrected a few slips of the pen . . . promising work . . . to be printed tomorrow . . . ten kroner.”

Laughing and crying, I leaped up and raced down the street, stopped to slap my thighs and flung a solemn oath into space for no particular reason. And time passed.

All night long, till daybreak, I went yodeling about the streets dazed with joy, repeating: promising work, meaning a little masterpiece, a stroke of genius. And ten kroner!

PART TWO

A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER I found myself out-of-doors one night.

I had once again been sitting in one of the cemeteries working on an article for one of the papers. While I was busy with this it got to be ten o'clock, darkness came on, and the gate was going to be closed. I was hungry, very hungry; those ten kroner, I'm sorry to say, were gone all too quickly. It was now two, nearly three, days since I had eaten anything and I felt weak, slightly fatigued from moving my pencil. I had a half-pocketknife and a bunch of keys in my pocket, but not a penny.

When the cemetery gate closed I should have gone straight home, but from an instinctive fear of my completely dark and empty room—an abandoned tinsmith's shop where I had finally been allowed to stay for the time being—I shambled on, wandering aimlessly past the city jail, all the way down to the harbor and over to a bench on Jærnbane Pier, where I sat down.

At that moment not a single sad thought entered my mind; I forgot my privation and felt soothed by the sight of the harbor, which lay there lovely and peaceful in the semi-darkness. By force of habit I wanted to give myself the treat of skimming through the piece I had just written, which seemed to my aching brain the best thing I had ever done. I pulled the manuscript out of my pocket, held it up close in order to see, and browsed through one page after another. In the end I got tired and put the papers back in my pocket. Everything was still; the sea stretched away like blue mother-of-pearl, and small birds flew silently by from one place to another. A policeman is patrolling his beat some distance off, otherwise there is not a soul to be seen and the entire harbor is quiet.

I count my money again: a half-pocketknife, a bunch of keys, but not a penny. Suddenly I dip into my pocket and pull out my papers once more. It was a mechanical action, an unconscious twitch of the nerves. I picked a white, blank page and—God only knows where I got the idea from—made a cornet, closed it carefully to make it look full and threw it along the pavement, far out. It was carried yet a bit farther by the wind, then lay still.

By this time hunger had begun to attack me. I sat eyeing this white cornet, which looked as though swollen with shiny silver coins, and worked myself up to believing that it really did contain something. I kept cajoling myself, aloud, into guessing the amount—if I guessed correctly it was mine! I imagined the nice little ten-øre coins at the bottom and the fat, milled krone pieces on top—a whole cornet chock-full of money! My eyes popping, I sat there staring at it, bracing myself to go and steal it.

Then I hear the officer cough. What put it into my head to do exactly the same? I get up from the bench and cough, repeating the cough three times to catch his ear. How he would pounce on that cornet when he came! I sat there rejoicing over this trick, rubbing my hands with delight and rapping out grand curses at random. Wouldn't he end up laughing on the wrong side of his mouth though, the dog! Wouldn't he just sink into the bottomless pit and fry in hell for this dirty trick! I was drunk with starvation, my hunger had made me intoxicated.

A few minutes later the policeman comes along, rapping his iron heels on the paving stones and peering on all sides. He takes his time, having the whole night before him; he doesn't see the cornet, not until he's quite close to it. Then he stops and gazes at it. It looks so white and precious lying there, perhaps a tidy little sum, eh? A tidy little sum of silver coins? . . . He picks it up. Hmm! It's light, very light. Maybe an expensive plume, hat trim. . . . He opens it carefully with his big hands and peeps inside. I laughed, laughed and slapped my knees, laughed like a madman. And not a sound emerged from my throat; my laughter was feverish and silent, with the intensity of tears. . . .

Then there is again the clitterclatter on the cobblestones, and the officer takes a turn along the pier. I sat there with tears in my eyes, gasping for breath, quite beside myself with feverish merriment. I began to talk aloud, told myself the story of the cornet, aped the poor policeman's movements, peeped into the hollow of my hand and repeated over and over to myself: He coughed when he threw it away! He coughed when he threw it away! I added new words, with titillating supplements, changed the whole sentence and made it more pointed: He coughed once—huh-huh!

I spent myself in variations on these words, and it got to be late evening before my merriment ceased. Then a drowsy calm came over me, a pleasant fatigue which I did nothing to resist. The darkness had become thicker now, and a light breeze ruffled the mother-of-pearl of the sea. The ships whose masts I saw outlined against the sky looked, with their black hulls, like silent monsters that were raising their hackles and lying in wait for me. I suffered no pain, my hunger had taken the edge off; instead I felt pleasantly empty, untouched by everything around me and happy to be unseen by all. I put my legs up on the bench and leaned back, the best way to feel the true well-being of seclusion. There wasn't a cloud in my mind, nor did I feel any discomfort, and I hadn't a single unfulfilled desire or craving as far as my thought could reach. I lay with open eyes in a state of utter absence from myself and felt deliciously out of it.

So far not a sound disturbed me; the soft darkness had hidden the whole world from my sight and buried me in sheer quietude—only the desolate, muted voice of stillness whispers monotonously in my ear. The dark monsters out there would suck me up when night came on, and they would carry me far across the sea and through strange lands where no humans lived. They would bring me to Princess Ylajali's castle, where an undreamed-of splendor awaited me, exceeding that of all others. And she herself will be sitting in a sparkling hall where all is of amethyst, on a throne of yellow roses, and she will hold out her hand to me when I enter, greet me and bid me welcome as I approach and kneel down: Welcome, my knight, to me and my land! I've waited twenty summers for you and summoned you on every white night; and when you grieved I wept in this room, and when you slept I breathed lovely dreams into you. . . . And the fair one takes my hand and pulls me along, leads me through long corridors where big crowds of people shout hurrahs, through bright gardens where three hundred young damsels are playing games and laughing, and into another hall where all is of brilliant emerald. Here the sun shines, beguiling choral music floats through the galleries and corridors, and waves of fragrance waft toward me. I hold her hand in mine and feel the wild beauty of enchantment race through my blood; I put my arm around her and she whispers, Not here, come further still! And we enter the red hall where all is of rubies, a foaming splendor in which I swoon. Then I feel her arms around me, she breathes upon my face and whispers, Welcome, my love! Kiss me! Again . . . again . . .

From my bench I see stars before my eyes, and my thoughts are swept up into a hurricane of light. . . .

I had fallen asleep where I lay and was awakened by the policeman. There I was, mercilessly called back to life and my misery. My first feeling was a stupid amazement at finding myself out in the open, but this was soon replaced by a bitter despondency; I was on the verge of crying with grief at still being alive. It had rained while I slept, my clothes were soaking wet, and I felt a raw chill in my limbs. The darkness had become even thicker, I could barely make out the officer's features in front of me.

“Stand up now, will you!” he said.

I got up immediately; if he had ordered me to lie down again, I would also have obeyed. I was very depressed and quite weak, and besides I started almost instantly to feel the pangs of hunger again.

“Wait a minute, you dummy!” the officer called after me. “You're walking off without your hat. There, now go on!”

“It seemed to me, too, there was something—something I had forgotten,” I stammered absent-mindedly. “Thanks. Good night.”

And I shambled off.

If only one had a piece of bread! One of those delicious little loaves of rye bread that you could munch on as you walked the streets. And I kept picturing to myself just the sort of rye bread it would have been good to have. I was bitterly hungry, wished myself dead and gone, grew sentimental and cried. There would never be an end to my misery! Then, suddenly, I stopped in the street, stamped my feet on the cobblestones and swore aloud. What was it he had called me? Dummy? I'd show that policeman what it meant to call me a dummy! With that I turned around and rushed back. I felt flaming hot with anger. Some way down the street I stumbled and fell, but I took no notice, jumped up again and ran on. On reaching Jærnbanetorvet Square, however, I was so tired that I didn't feel up to going all the way to the pier; besides, my anger had cooled off during the run. Finally I stopped to catch my breath. Who gave a hoot what such a policeman had said?—Sure, but I wasn't going to swallow everything!—True enough! I interrupted myself, but he didn't know any better. I found this excuse to be satisfactory; I repeated to myself that he didn't know any better. And so I turned around once more.